


All The Difference

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as a cure for a tension headache, a means to help Sherlock concentrate on the case in hand, but something more was waiting to be unleashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Difference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



“I have no intention of cluttering my mind with inanities John; I refuse to waste my time like that.”

“Really?  And the headache you’re giving yourself going over and over this case is productive?” 

John smiled fondly at the back of the curly head. Its owner was currently staring sulkily into the back of the couch, and rubbing his aching temples. Reaching down he grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Come on, up!” he said to his friend, pulling gently.

Sherlock glanced up; the sneer that was forming on his face not quite fulfilling it’s potential. He was unsure what it was he saw in the doctor’s face, but it was not derision, nor was he trying to make a joke of the situation.

Pulling Sherlock’s computer chair away from the desk he wheeled it into the middle of the room.

“What are you doing?” Rolling off the couch Sherlock stood and watched as John flicked through his laptop, then moved across and closed the curtains.

“You’ll see. Sit yourself on that, leaning your forearms across the back.”

“Backwards?”

John looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised.

“Well yes, unless you can take your arms off and reattach them back to front, it would have to be…”

“Funny John, why?”

The blond doctor rummaged in his army medical kit.

“I’m going to cure your headache, now sit.”

With a resigned sigh Sherlock did as he was told.

“Um…and, er, undo your shirt will you?  I want to get at those tension knots in your neck and shoulders.”

“But I don’t need you to ‘get at’ any knots.” He gave his friend a startled glance. “What’s that?”

John looked at the tube in his hand and blushed a bright red.

“Not what you think, git!” he said, shoving the offending article hastily into his pocket. “It’s medical grade hand-cream, just to make it easier to….well, never mind. Head first.”

With a quick flick of his fingers he set the music playing on his laptop, then stepping up behind Sherlock he carefully combed his fingers through the thick luxurious curls, gradually increasing the pressure as he ran the tips over his scalp from forehead to base.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Tchaikovsky.” Sherlock murmured his eyes closing as he let his head fall forward onto his arms.

“I’m not, but I happen to know that you are, and particularly of this piece.”

Nothing had been more guaranteed to silence the consulting genius than to know that his flatmate had taken the time to find out the name of the tune he so often played.

Feeling John’s fingers move down his neck Sherlock finally let his fingers stray to the buttons on his shirt, flicking them open and letting the smooth cotton fabric slide down until it caught on his biceps.

He noticed the difference the minute John applied the hand-cream, the slightly calloused hands now moving with slick ease as fingers manipulated the tight knotted muscles, but it wasn’t only Sherlock’s neck and shoulders that reacted. 

His eyes flickering open, he glanced down to see what could certainly be deemed an embarrassing and totally uncontrolled reaction tenting his trousers where they were pulled taut by his outstretched thighs.

The slow firm sweep of hands moved rhythmically in time with the blood coursing through Sherlock’s body, and he bit his lip against a groan of frustrated desire that threatened to escape, manifesting itself instead as a fine tremor that quivered through his limbs.

Standing behind the chair John was glad his friend couldn’t see the effect running his hands over the smooth porcelain skin was having on him. 

He’d always known that his flatmate was one of those untouchable, beautiful creatures that he had always admired, but unlike some of the other’s he’d known Sherlock had a brain to match – beautiful in its complexity, far superior to those around him, and it had been that dark and fragile beauty that had drawn the previously staunchly heterosexual ex-Army doctor to want to protect this particular moth from burning his wings on the candle of his intellect.

Now the discomfort of the solid ridge trying to press its way out of his tight jeans both fascinated and frightened him.  Fascinated, because he had touched Sherlock’s skin many times in the two years that they had shared a flat – given their lifestyle, and the younger man’s aversion to visiting Accident and Emergency departments, it would have been a miracle if he had never managed to get himself an injury that required cleaning and occasionally stitching – but this was the first time he had touched it like this, with the intention of bring ease, and pleasure.

And it frightened him, because if Sherlock discovered his attraction he didn’t think he could remain at 221B.  Couldn’t stay knowing that he was sexually attracted to his scathingly asexual flatmate.  

As it was he found himself questioning the wisdom of well, just about everything. Should he stay or cut and run? Should he continue to do this, what he was doing to Sherlock, or should he stop and just go upstairs, leave the man to his tensions and headaches.

A strangled groan, torn from the red and bitten lips of the younger man wiped all thought of leaving from John’s mind.

“You okay Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed, nodding his head slightly.

“Sure?” John stopped massaging and pushed his hands into his jeans pockets in an effort to disguise his aching arousal.

Sherlock looked up, his pupils blown, his eyes almost black. With catlike grace he stood and stepped away from the chair, his eyes never leaving John’s, seeing in the navy blue eyes the tell-tale dilation, a mirror of his own.

“John….I don’t know what to say….”

“No…don’t say anything…”

“Will you leave?”

“Do you want me to?”

For a moment Sherlock hesitated, frowning.  Misreading the silence John started to turn away, and in his haste stop him the younger man lunged forward, tripping over his feet and crashing into him.

In that one second of incredible clarity John felt Sherlock’s arousal pressing against his thigh, and he stilled.

“You…you want…?”

“You? Yes John, but I won’t force anything on you.”  There was uncertainty in those now dark eyes.

“Why?  I mean, why now? I thought you had no time for relationships.”

“You’re not gay, remember?  I have no right to intrude on your peace of mind with my thoughts, my obsessions.”

John suddenly started to feel as if he was falling down the proverbial rabbit hole, with nothing to break his fall.

“Your obsessions? You’re obsessed with me?”

Sherlock broke eye contact turned his head and looked away, ashamed. In the background the music had finished, and the flat was still and quiet as if holding its breath.

“Physical relationships have never really interested me other than as an occasional release, or to get information or insinuate myself into places.” Still looking away his voice was soft but clear, and John had no difficulty following his words. “But when you moved in… John, I’ve wanted to… well….”

He started to move away but John grasped his wrist.

“You want me?”

“John, I’m sorry. I’ll not pester you, only…stay?  Please?”

“Answer me dammit! Do you want me?”

His head whipping round at the anguished tone of his flatmate’s voice, Sherlock stared down into John’s eyes.

“Why is it important?”

It was John’s turn to break eye contact, dropping his head to look at the contrast of the pale wrist held in his tanned hand. Licking his lips he pulled Sherlock’s hand across and held it against the still hard ridge that strained against this new sensation and quivered, and tried harder to escape its cotton and denim prison. 

“This makes it important.” John ground out hoarsely. “This fucking hard on that’s nearly killing me in its efforts to get into your hand, or your mouth, or any other fucking orifice you want it in Sherlock, and what’s more…” he swallowed hard. “…I have no intention of denying it what it wants – if **_you_** want it.”

Taking barely a second to assimilate the other man’s words, Sherlock dipped his head and captured John’s lips in a searing kiss, his hand squeezing and manipulating the hard hot flesh of john’s arousal, his fingers skilfully opening his fly and sliding in to make contact.

“Yesssss.” John’s breath hissed from between his teeth, and his legs would have given out on his if Sherlock’s hand hadn’t slid down further and cupped his swollen, aching balls.

“Will you come to my bedroom?” Hot breath scorched across the shell of John’s ear as the deep baritone doubled his heart-rate.

“You need to ask?” he gasped into Sherlock’s mouth.

Reluctantly parting, they made swift work of removing their clothes, so that by the time they reached Sherlock’s bed they both stood, naked and proud, mesmerised.

A slender pale hand reached out and hovered, uncertainly, above the web of scar tissue that spread across the doctor’s shoulder. There was a question in the young man’s eyes.

“It’s sensitive, sometimes a bit tender, but you can touch it – you won’t hurt me.”

The hand however moved to rest on John’s arm and soft lips instead touched and tasted; the tip of a pink tongue traced the ridges and marks of the surgeon’s knife.

John groaned.

“Do it Sherlock, whatever it is you want to do to me just….Christ I can’t breathe for wanting you so much…”

“Down…..lay down.”

As John stretched out on the bed Sherlock knelt and took him into his mouth, the hot damp heat almost pushing the other man over the edge. Without breaking his rhythm he twisted his body round, prising John’s fist from where it had twisted into the sheets and pressed it to his own pulsing erection, and closed his eyes in ecstasy as, despite the awkward angle, John matched the rhythm of his hand to the rhythm of Sherlock’s mouth.

They were both far too far gone to last for long, and John’s shout of release was followed seconds later by the rush of Sherlock’s seed spilling across the pair of them.

Slowly, very slowly the lanky detective brought himself round to lay face to face with his friend.

“Okay?” he asked softly.

In answer John reached up and kissed him, his tongue begging entrance to his mouth, receiving permission, and tasting coffee overlaid with the salty tang uniquely his own.

In the soft aftermath, as they settled together, entwined, snuggly fitted, John blew a teasing breath across a sensitive nipple and asked the only question that had teased his mind in this whole evening of revelation and discovery.

“Your body is just transport, its wants and needs to be ignored in favour of cases, and believe me I’d not have given this up for the world, but tell me – what happened that changed all that?”

Sherlock smiled in the darkness.

“It’s you John, you make all the difference.”


End file.
